


The Ballad of Dave Strider

by AutoResponder



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Child Abuse, Gross, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Stitching
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-19
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-09 17:24:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7810696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AutoResponder/pseuds/AutoResponder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dave thinks that for once, he’d prefer to ruin something of his brother’s. Show how much he abhors him, remind him that not everything can simply be <i>washed away</i> or swept under the rug to be forgotten. To be taken off the back burner and thrown out. Warp those unreadable expressions of Bro’s into something reminiscent of hurt. Betrayal. Give Dave just the slightest victory and be the one to leave the scars.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Breathless.

That’s how Dave feels when he opens his eyes, gravel lodged into the skin of his cheek, hand pressed to the back of his head. Fingers tangle themselves in his hair, gripping tight and twisting in a fashion that has him nearly eating dirt.

“Get up.”

Without fail, that voice has Dave’s stomach burning, just as any other time he’s heard the scarcely used baritone of his brother’s vocal chords. “Piss off,” he bites out, the tang of metal on his tongue as it drips down his gums and past his lips. It earns Dave a knee wedged into his back, fist tightening in his tresses. Never had he hated someone so much in his life. With such gusto. With every Goddamn fiber of his being. He groans, quietly, shifting under the weight heavily laid on his spine, aching and sore, further ripping the sliced flesh across his side.

His brother doesn’t make a motion to budge, finding it more appropriate to rest the blade of his katana near Dave’s throat - threatening, though whether or not it was empty had been a mystery. Dave never doubted that if given the chance, he might just do it. Might just take it farther than before. Might wipe Dave’s head clear off his shoulders. “This is pathetic,” his brother gripes flatly, pushing Dave’s face harder into the filth of the concrete. His fingers buzz, ears ringing as Bro slides his knee lower, bony edge dipping into the ass end of the laceration across Dave’s abdomen. 

White lights cross his vision, and Dave finds his voice lost within the piercing key tone in his head, writhing with every jab into his torn muscle. The white fabric of his tattered shirt is damp - nearly soaked with blood and sweat, starting from the midsection. Pain was a past notion to him, replaced with a numb sort of agony that he no longer found the will to respond to. Spots danced before his eyes, darkness clouding his peripherals, and Bro’s voice reverberated in his temples in garbled nonsense. Noise with no meaning, yet still mocked and wounded his conscious.

“I’m dying,” he chokes, gurgling on spit and coppery mucus. “Bro, I’m dying.” Dave’s own words hit the back of his throat, strained and weary. 

“You’re not _dying_.” 

“I can’t breathe.”

He tries but the air doesn’t reach his lungs, and his legs are still tingling with a lingering, humming pain. The trembling of his body had ceased, lying stiff under his brother, who’s still putting every pound of his mass into smothering Dave against the rooftop. Almost as if he wanted to crush him. Dave wondered how much harder Bro had to shove until his brains would splatter across the sediment.

Panic manifests itself into his chest and veins, hallucinations passing before him, memories stabbing painfully at his ribs. And it feels like nothing and everything at the same time. 

He concedes. Fight or flight ran its course through his body and left him lying helplessly beneath his predator, forfeiting himself to death’s grasp as meager prey. He’s sure he hears Bro talking, feels his fingers dragging their nails into his scalp, but Dave doesn’t respond. Can’t respond. He is still. The moth on the wall, caught between pressure and starvation. He’s going to die here.

He’s going to die.

_And then he’s moving._

Not by his own volition - correction, he is _being_ moved, lifted and unceremoniously tucked under an arm much thicker than his own two combined, left to watch them dangle uselessly in front of himself; watch his blood drip sloppy patterns onto the floor as it turns from cement to wood to carpet.

He doesn’t feel it when he’s dropped onto the coffee table, only the vague pressure of an Xbox controller getting well acquainted with his shoulder and an old magazine crumpling underneath his legs. “Roll over,” Bro says it as if Dave can gather up enough energy to do anything other than blink and not choke on his own saliva. Bro leaves without waiting to see if Dave can actually do it. His arms feel nonexistent as he searches for the tethers that allow him to twitch, to flex, to move his hands and brace them against the cheap acacia surface of the table. Lethargic, he struggles to slither his hands beside his chest and heave. Dave’s elbows shake, buckle down and slam his nose directly into the wood. If it hadn’t already been bleeding, he would have been concerned. He’s almost positive that it’s broken.

It’s equasive to sleep paralysis, the terrifying conundrum of losing all control of one’s nerves, unable to raise their limbs, feeling shackled and weighted down. Trapped in his own physicality. Dave tries, twice more, to roll himself onto at least his side. It’s suffering; too heavy and too lucid. He sighs and makes a decent effort at not gagging on the wad building up behind his uvula when he’s finally on his back, arms draped over the ends of the table on either side of him.

“Glad to see you didn’t fall off it this time.” Anyone else would have mistaken his monotonous drawl for genuine relief, but Dave knows better. Bro is sarcastic, only says it to make Dave feel worse about himself, to make his guts twist into several different kinds of knots until the contents upchuck themselves in acidic word vomit. It’s a game to him, nothing but a test to check just where Dave’s boiling point settles this time. “Shirt,” he says curtly, resting one knee between Dave’s legs and placing the medkit next to his thigh.

Dave finally swallows and instantly regrets it if only because he’d let the grime in his throat gather into a ball of slimy phlegm. Might just make him sick all over again. He coughs and moans lowly, a wheeze in his lungs as he reaches down at a snail’s pace. Bro is busy popping open the aluminum lunch box that contains all of their tougher threads and thin needles, along with ointments, gauze and bandages. The whole nine yards. The only thing missing is a surgical suture, which he’s sure Bro has forgone just to make the process more painful for Dave.

His fingers finally loop into the hem of his shirt and Dave lifts it with a hiss. The fabric sticks to the tissue of his gaping wound, pulling off with a sickly sound, like peeling wax paper off packaged meat. It’s wet and dry at the same time and Dave gets his shirt at least halfway up his chest before he surrenders to the exhaustion, breathing heavily. The air is cold against his cut despite the weather being ninety degrees, and it’s only half of a relief when Bro slaps a warm rag over his abdomen. Half, because the other is a stinging discomfort, makes him grit his teeth and reflexively inch away from the cloth with what little strength remains in his bones.

Bro practically drags the rag across his stomach and side, digging in and cleaning the wound, tuning out all of Dave’s weakened cries. There’s no point in asking for him to be gentle; it doesn’t work and sometimes he just scrubs harder. Scrubs and _scrubs_ until Dave is sure the skin is swollen and pink around ground fucking zero.

He can handle this, though. He can handle it. It’s the other part that he can’t. The part that he hates the most - hates the way Bro looks at him like he’s another project, another craft, when he leans down and sits firmly on Dave’s thigh after rinsing his exposed flesh to make way for the surgery. Dave’s breath catches while he watches his brother thread the needle, skin crawling when a palm rests on it, too gentle for it to be natural, for it to mean anything. Gentle enough to fuck with Dave’s emotions for only the briefest of moments.

His thoughts are immediately denied any coherent formulation once the pin pricks his skin, and Dave’s toes curl as it pushes through to the other side. He arches under his brother’s hand, wincing and seething through his clenched teeth as the thread slides through his skin in the most hair-raising of ways. Dave would like to reiterate that he _hates_ this part. Hates how his brother’s callused fingers softly squeeze below his rib cage, hates the intimate amount of concentration as he eyes the laceration, so carefully sewing Dave back together like another one of his _fucking puppets_.

Bro grips Dave’s hip as he shifts, presses a knee into his groin, and Dave bucks when the thread begins to tighten his skin and pull, tugging it so the flaps mash together. He moans in near agony, finds the energy to reach out and grab the edges of the table for support. Sweat drips down his neck and face, down his arms, and Bro keeps his mercilessly slow pace, stretching Dave out and piecing him into place like some expensive cut of fabric. He gasps, knees trembling and head tossed back, resisting the instinct to shy away, to writhe out of his proximity. This isn’t his first time getting treated. The one and only time he ever crawled away had left him worse off than before and the super glue gave him an infection.

He’s panting, wheezing shallowly by the time Bro’s halfway through, noises spilling from Dave’s bruised lips as he swallows down any particularly loud whimpers that wish to climb past his larynx. Dave can hardly stand it any longer, on the verge of sobbing behind the cracked sunglasses adorning his face. The ones that match his brother’s, though Bro’s are perfectly intact. Not a single scratch on them. Dave wishes he’d at least make an effort to _not_ be a raging fucking douchebag for all of the Goddamn time. Make it look like he’d actually been in a strife.

Dave returns his gaze to his brother’s hands, watching his fingers work deftly, having orchestrated this song and dance one too many times. He knows where it hurts the worst and almost aims for those parts - pokes Dave elsewhere on purpose, presses hard into his hip and stays as still as a statue despite Dave’s canting. It’s effortless for Bro; doesn’t miss a beat even when Dave crunches and blood spurts out from his wound, oozing around the zigzag stitching of the thread and rolling down his side.

The rag makes a guest appearance to soak up the mess and Dave flinches when Bro leans in to blow away any loose fibers that the cloth might have left behind. Puts the needle down on Dave’s jeans, just so he can press his thumb to the closed slit and swipe it across the seam. He wipes the pus and blood off on Dave’s pants when he picks the needle up again, after the entirely unnecessary prodding.

_Dave hates him._

He whines as Bro continues to sew his flesh until it’s finally shut, and he gives the thread a tug until it’s pulled taut and he’s satisfied with his handiwork, tying the end and smoothing a palm over Dave’s hip needlessly. 

Needless, because he experimentally smacks the bare skin above it shortly after, checking for a reaction. That Dave still has feeling in his nerve endings. He yelps and that’s all Bro requires. “You’re fine. Stop crying.” He sounds almost bored, like it’s exasperating to deal with Dave’s histrionics of being sliced open and then wrapped upped in the same fucking evening. Like this is a waste of his time. He puts the needle into the lunch box, thumbing through the stacks of ointments inside until he finds the Neosporin, uncapping the tube and squirting a liberal amount onto his fingertips. 

Dave intakes sharply when Bro rubs the antibiotic over his stitches, coating it from one side to the other in a single fluid motion. His fingers return to the creasing just to make sure it’s covered as neatly as he wants it, ignoring Dave’s wincing. Bro puts the finishing touches on the dressing by sealing Dave’s wound under two large, waterproof bandages. He smacks those on, too. Red seeps into the gauze underneath the linen fibers. “We aren’t done yet.” 

Bro flips the lid of the medkit closed before raising himself off Dave’s leg and then the table. He’s already making a beeline for the kitchen, gloves coming off.

The sound of running water fills Dave’s ears when his brother disappears from sight, and Dave groans wearily as he rolls onto his good side, eyes burning as hard as his cuts. Senses finally return to him and he can feel every bruise as he twists and turns, attempting to sit up with minimal damage. He manages. The futon provides decent support for his weight as Dave limps to follow Bro, who stands waiting by the sink, gloves tossed into it so the water can douse them thoroughly.

When he makes the lugubrious trek to the counter, the gloves are already cleared of any blood that might’ve been previously clinging to the fabric. 

Bro stares at him, inscrutable.

Dave thinks that for once, he’d prefer to ruin something of his brother’s. Show how much he abhors him, remind him that not everything can simply be _washed away_ or swept under the rug to be forgotten. To be taken off the back burner and thrown out. Warp those unreadable expressions of Bro’s into something reminiscent of hurt. Betrayal. Give Dave just the slightest victory and be the one to leave the scars.

“What?” Dave snaps, hacking loudly and turning to spit into the basin. Bro’s already lifted his gloves before the disgusting substance can touch his gaudy accessories.

Before Dave can even see him drop the things back in, Bro’s hands are on his face, grabbing roughly at his jaw and tilting Dave’s head. “Don’t move,” he commands, and Dave’s body goes rigid before fingers pinch his nose and _twist_. The sound of the faucet gushing into the thin steel sink muffles a _crack_ , but Dave can hear it clearly in his head, bone crunching, as Bro rearranges his cartilage and pops his crooked nose back into place. The desire to wail hits him desperately but his voice is sore and his body is spent. Dave wants to sleep.

“Go clean up. You’re done.” 

Sleep will have to wait, but Dave isn’t going to complain. Showering is at least one thing he enjoys around this place, and he doesn’t want to lay down in a heap of his own bodily fluids anyway. Not while blood drips from his nostrils.

There’s no point in responding to that. Instead Dave turns and silently shuffles out of the kitchen.

When he’s far enough down the hall, he whispers a quiet insult under his breath.

“ _Dick_.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Package came for you,” Bro announces when Dave walks into the den, television blaring too loud for the middle of the night, lights flashing too hard for Dave’s eyes at this hour despite the sunglasses meant to protect his pupils. He can hear the sound effects over the thunderstorm outside, heavy drops of rain bombarding the walls and windows.

“A package came for me. At eleven o’clock at night, on a Sunday,” Dave retorts, eyeing the back of his brother’s head. Lil’ Cal is draped over his shoulders, unnervingly looking too comfortable for Dave to feel kosher with. Its head is facing him, glassy eyes staring at Dave as if following his every movement. He ignores this, plays it off as his brother’s way of looking at him rather than having to make the actual physical effort. “Who’s it from?”

“Egbert kid,” he replies, attention glued to the video game he has on screen. “It’s on the counter.”

Dave makes a quiet sound of acknowledgment before walking the short distance to the kitchen, blue box sitting atop the counter just as Bro had said. There’s a shipping label stamped to the side of it with John’s name and address, then Dave’s apartment below it.

He retrieves the box and tries not to run to his room.

Snoop Dogg’s _Ego Trippin’_ album case comes in handy when he uses the sharp corner to cut open the shipping tape on the cardboard. Once the flaps are pulled back, Dave dives in, fishing around for the inner contents of his present. His fingers touch a piece of paper first, folded into three parts. Dave pulls it out, opening what he discovers to be a letter, Pesterchum resting silently on his computer monitor as he takes a seat at the desk to read.

  


Hell yes.

Dave can’t dig into the box fast enough to pull out the aviators John mentioned in his letter, buried under a mountain's worth of tissue paper with fucking Groucho Glasses patterns printed on the wrapping. He doesn’t feel even the slightest bit guilty when he removes the triangle shades from his face, staring down at them intensely, as if he could bore holes into the lenses just by looking. His thumb caresses the framing around an edge, trails over the arm for just a second before his stomach churns and Dave banishes them to the corner of the desk. He dons the new pair of sunglasses gifted to him by his best friend, and the world looks just a little less dreary.

He takes a deep breath and brings Pesterchum forward.

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering ghostlyTrickster [GT] \--

TG: sup  
GT: hey dave!  
GT: did you get that thing i sent you?  
GT: you know.  
GT: that THING i sent ya.  
GT: did you get it????  
TG: yeah i got it peter potamus sit your ass down  
TG: youre taking fame away from the babar family as fattest quadrupeds in the room  
TG: i feel like me and stiller are one  
TG: walking in the footsteps of a legend here carrying his baton into the comedial olympics  
GT: lmao.  
TG: so listen  
TG: guy to guy here  
TG: real importante  
TG: i need you to pass down your jedi secrets in the proficiency of pranking to me  
GT: oh, so now my pranking mastery is all of the sudden convenient to you?  
GT: after all this time you have spent busting my chops about it.  
GT: i don’t know dave.  
GT: but i GUESS i will make an exception.   
GT: just this once, and only because it’s your birthday.  
TG: man shut up i know you get all of your shit from that stupid book which by the way is ass old  
GT: do you want my help or not?  
TG: oh merciful poseidon  
TG: i am eternally grateful  
TG: ill make sure to dedicate my newest mix to you  
TG: work a soliloquy about your kindness into my next rap  
TG: john egbert quenching thirsts for my otherwise barren knowledge garden  
TG: little billy over here was famished for such caper antics before you came along and dropped bombs of generosity onto his family  
TG: this care package will stave them off for like  
TG: an entire week  
GT: ok, anyway.  
GT: so what kind of prank are you looking to pull?  
GT: who is going to be the prankee???  
GT: more importantly, how intense are we aiming to make it.  
GT: because, let us be real, my trickster game is off the charts.  
TG: oh yeah im like quivering in my hightops just picturing your gambit meter pulling mad airflares until it spins itself radically off a tricked out two wheeler  
TG: bursting right out of its polycarbon container  
TG: im gonna need a splash shield for all this spewage of awesome juice  
GT: that is right.  
GT: tremble before my amazing prowess of the tomfoolery nature.  
TG: totally  
GT: you wish your sick rhymes came even close to being how wicked these skillz of mine are.  
TG: all of my linguistic warriors drop their swords at your feet  
TG: years spent attending word smithing academy rendered useless  
TG: you didnt even give them a chance to entrance you with their runic mantras forged from the depths of websters molten hearth  
GT: now that we have established who the superior guy is.  
GT: i will let you in on my biggest secrets to how pulling off a great prank works.  
TG: sweet because i need to make this good enough to get the drop on my bro  
GT: hahahaha what.  
GT: well that’s easy just pretend you offed his favorite puppet or something.  
GT: what was its name again.  
GT: little pal?  
TG: lil cal  
TG: and im pretty sure hed murder me if i ever left a single fiber out of place on its polyester caboose  
GT: oh please, you are so over exaggerating.  
GT: he wouldn’t murder you.  
GT: and it is not like you would be ACTUALLY killing his weird doll. if you can even kill an inanimate object.  
GT: isn’t he thirty-something years old already?  
GT: why does he still have that thing?  
TG: idk why does your dad still buy clown posters and bicycle horns  
TG: its just his thing  
TG: same as sword fighting and horror movies  
TG: everybody has their thing why do you have to knock my bros junk  
TG: its cool lil cal is cool  
GT: how cool can a guy who wears a polo shirt and leather gloves combo even be.  
TG: alright how about you step off and get back to milking your pumping dome nugget on how to style all over my bros chill factor  
TG: i didnt come here for pop rockings of my bros rep i came here for some secondhand stratagem overalls  
GT: omg fine!!!  
GT: don’t get your panties in a knot.   
GT: you are such a drama queen.

A chill runs up his spine as Dave taps away at his keyboard, reflexively shivering subtly under the eerie atmosphere that suddenly fills his space. 

TG: hold that thought

He turns in the shitty conference chair that has the honor of holding Dave’s ass in its deflated cushion. 

Dave can feel the eyes on him, watching. Waiting to be acknowledged. So he does just that, twisting his upper half around just enough to look at Lil’ Cal; seated all too cozily on the corner of his bed. Dave isn’t afraid. His fingers tremble, but he’s not afraid. Bro did this. It’s his way of disconcerting Dave, silently conveying that he knows, that he’s got watch on his little brother. Make him feel like crawling out of his own skin, either by rage or unsettlement. More of his games.

Lil’ Cal’s head tilts just slightly to the right, and its body slumps, tipping over from the weight. It’s not just that Bro is surveillancing him this time - not so much as he wants to have a word with Dave. Or else his fucking puppet wouldn’t be pointing towards the door; would have been propped on his turntables or a desk where Dave felt more disconnected. Not on his mattress, where he’s never gotten a full night’s rest. Where he’s most vulnerable.

It takes Dave several seconds to shake off the immobility clasped around his kneecaps when he stands. Several less to walk the two feet distance between the desk and bed. Grabs Lil’ Cal by the waist to drape its body over his shoulder. Such is mandatory when transporting Bro’s puppet. 

Lil’ Cal doesn’t like to be manhandled.

He exits his bedroom and heads for the den, where his bro has turned off the television and unfolded the futon, billiard bedsheets covering it messily. Dave stands adjacent to one side, Bro on the other, and seats Lil’ Cal on the cushion. It slumps against the wooden armrest. 

Bro’s staring at him, but doesn’t make a peep, or any other indication that he’s ready to start talking. It’s aggravating, because he called Dave out here for a reason, but instead of speaking up he’ll eye Dave behind thick lenses and force him into a state of unease, until he gives in and breaks the silence, like _every other time_ they’ve had conversational confrontation. Dave hates that. The way Bro initiates anything by just staring, either by himself, or by proxy of Lil’ Cal, or the cameras perched in different corners of the apartment.

Getting underneath Dave’s skin and playing at all the things that make him unsettled, because it’s another competition for Bro. Another thing for him to tinker with. Have over Dave’s head. 

And every time Dave will lose.

“What’s up?” Dave resists the urge to tuck his fingers into his pockets, because he’ll get that _disapproving_ look if he does. Letting his discomfort outwardly show with minimal mannerisms.

His brother makes little effort to appear like he actually cares about whatever Dave is saying. It grinds Dave’s nerves something awful, seeing him so aloof. A moment passes, just long enough that Dave has to shift the weight on his feet before Bro lifts a hand, pointing towards Dave’s face. “That,” he says, short and simple.

Of course. Sunglasses. Dave should have fucking figured he’d only want to inquire about his Goddamn eyewear, because it’s not _Bro’s_ trademark brand. It’s someone else’s. Dave entertains the thought that, maybe just once, Bro might feel jealous. The slightest bit scorned that Dave would so easily replace his typical style with something less obstructive - something nicer with good intentions behind it. Not to make Dave a tiny clone of whomever. “John got them for me,” he says, and Bro’s expression(or lack of) doesn’t falter. He stops pointing, and continues to rubberneck in his own personal way that lets Dave know he doesn’t just _get it_ like he should be. Like Dave is being downright ludicrous. 

“It’s my birthday,” he adds, and his stomach sits low in his abdomen as a rock forms in the pit of it. He shouldn’t have to say that. Bro should know what day it is.

“Right.” Bro practically dismisses the event. He even turns his head, refusing to look at Dave. Like it doesn’t even matter. Like he’d _choose_ to forget such a thing even happened annually if he had the option to.

Which he does. He chooses to forget, and Dave feels as though being born must have been such an inconvenience for Bro to want to put it out of his mind and pretend that Dave isn’t a living, breathing person.

“Get me the old ones,” he says, and Dave’s eyebrow twitches, thankfully concealed by the much larger frames that cover his features. 

He steps away, heading back down the hall and into his room once he reaches the end of it. Dave walks to the corner of his desk, glancing at his monitor as he passes by. John’s left him several messages, and Jade’s handle is shown as online now. She’ll probably be asleep before he can sit down again at the computer. 

Dave picks the triangle shades up, making his way into the den once more. By the time he’s there, Bro’s stepped onto the other side of the futon, waiting, arms crossed under his chest. Something itches at the back of Dave’s mind, but he ignores it. Strangely, he feels as though he’s being reprimanded, silently by a brooding figure in their apartment. Bro doesn’t immediately say anything when Dave stops in front of him

“Give.” He speaks to Dave as if he’s a dog. Holds out his hand, waiting for the sunglasses to be deposited into his palm. Dave gets a bitter taste in his mouth.

“What are you going to do with them?” Dave asks, carefully dropping it into his brother’s grip.

The itch returns when Bro curls his fingers around the eyewear. “Hold out your hands,” he demands, and Dave complies too quickly. 

 

Bro grabs both of the triangle lenses, and the _snap_ that follows when he bends the frames makes Dave flinch.

 

Dave doesn’t think his blood could run any colder. 

His eyes follow the broken shades, two halves dropped into his open palms. Discarded. Useless. He realizes, after a moment, that he’s waiting for an explanation which he already knows the reason for. Bro doesn’t expand on what he’s done. Allows Dave to silently stew in the disappointment, the ridicule, _the disowning_. And then his brother turns, heads for the kitchen to do whatever it is that Dave doesn’t give a shit about, and Dave speed walks to his bedroom.

He closes the door once he’s in, makes a motion to lock the knob before his fingers graze against a gaping hole in the metal where the turnbutton should have been. Remembers the last time he tried to gain some privacy in a _very contained_ temper tantrum.

Dave pushes away from it, stepping over to his desk to stare at the blue box sitting by the edge. The letter beside it. The ridiculous wrapping paper scattered on his floor. _Ridiculous_. That’s how he feels. Stupid, inconsiderate, absolutely fucking disgusted. Privately, he wonders if the Stiller’s even look good on him in the first place. Probably not. Dave looks like a joke. That’s what he is. One big fucking joke. The lackluster punchline for some shitty pun. Everything he does and is has been because of one ironic statement taken too far for too long.

He is unoriginal.

His trash bin sits beside the concrete blocks used to hold his desk up. Dave hesitates before he lets the broken glasses fall into the garbage. One piece at a time.

He stands there and stares.

Stares for minutes.

When his eyes start to burn, he blinks. Removes his aviators and folds the arms so carefully over each other, placing the things on the corner of his desk. Suddenly, he feels tired. Exhausted, even. Dave crawls into bed without changing his clothes; faces the wall and finds patterns in the sloppy spread of the unpainted primer.

Pesterchum idles out when he doesn’t return to his computer.


End file.
